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If you have a child, you have experienced this. It doesn’t matter if your child is 5 years old or 5 hours old. Getting unsolicited advice, in and of itself, is, at minimum, annoying. When, however, people try to disguise parenting critiques and advice as innocent conversations with my children, it makes me want to kick puppies. First of all, did I accidentally put on my cone-shaped hat with the word “DUNCE” stenciled down the front or did you forget to wear yours? When we were in the grocery store check out line and you looked at my infant son and said to him, in that annoying baby talk voice, “you should tell your mommy that you need to be wearing a hat”, are you so stupid that you expect him to relay this message to me or do you think that I am too stupid to recognize that you are critiquing me as a mother?

The thing is, this happens all the time. Truth be told, my own mother does it. (Don’t look so indignant, Mom. You know you do it. I love you anyways but, seriously, cut that shit out.) Where strangers get off, though, dishing out parenting advice and criticism in general to people minding their own business, I will never know. Why there are those that think it is acceptable if the criticism is delivered to children, in front of parents, is a total mystery.

For starters, haven’t these jackasses ever heard of how most parents try to teach their children NOT TO TALK TO STRANGERS? Yet, it seems every time I take my kids anywhere, strangers are trying to strike up conversations with them. Honestly, I don’t really mind it, within reason. What has always shocked me, though, is how many strangers have offered my children CANDY! Two major rules of thumb: Don’t talk to strangers and don’t take candy from strangers, being broken by adults and right in front of my face. No, lady! You can keep your candy! And not just because I fear my 11 month old would choke to death on that peppermint but also because if my kid needs a snack, I am not going to go looking for a handout from some stranger in the auto shop waiting area.

A little insight: my 2-year-old could not care less about what his hair looks like. Even if he gave a shit, he is incapable of transporting himself to or scheduling a hair appointment. I am his mother and his father and I have decided that we think his little, long bowl cut is absofuckinglutely adorable. So, the next time you are taking my order at Denny’s and the urge overtakes you to lean over and say to my toddler, “Oh my! When are you going to get your hair cut”, don’t get upset when I shank you.

You cannot tell me that this is not one of the cutest kids you have ever seen in your life.

The next time you are standing in the checkout line and you tell my daughter, “Your mommy shouldn’t let you bite your nails or you’ll get worms”, don’t be surprised when I turn to your husband, standing next to you, and say “Your wife should mind her own damn business or she is gonna get her ass kicked in Wal-Mart.”

If you think my kid needs a nap, chances are I am aware that he needs a damn nap. Don’t talk to my kid to inform him that his mommy needs to get him home for a nap. He will adamantly disagree and now you have made the next five minutes of my life a little more of a hell because you said the “n” word to his face and he is going to express his opposition to your suggestion in the form of a Level II meltdown. You say it again, and it escalates to a Level IV/Code Red and I will be forced to respond violently. You just better hope it is not my nap time when you pull this shit.

If it bothers you that my 5-year-old opted out of socks with his tennis shoes, keep it to yourself. If you say to him in a “wittle” voice with “wittle” words that his mommy should go get him some socks, I am going to give you a “wittle” kick in the taco.

Mind your own business, people. You can go have your own kids and be a perfect parent and raise perfect kids. Please don’t interrupt me while I am busy screwing mine up completely with long hair and stinky shoes.

Like this:

Let me just start by saying that when I typed out the title to this post, I realized that “boy” looks really weird. I guess it became apparent for the first time because I spelled it multiple times, side by side. I was saying it in my head as I typed it and that only added to the realization of what a funny word it is; BOY, BOY, BOY, BOY, BOY, BOY, BOY. But I digress…

I am getting closer to evicting Number Four and, with each passing day, the realization that I am going to be a mother of four, including 3 BOYS creeps up on me and punches me in the face. First of all, as soon as I find out what causes this whole pregnancy thing, I am DEFINITELY going to stop doing that! I have had a few theories but, so far, I have ruled most of them out. Anyhoo, back to the fact that I am adding yet another vat of testosterone to this household: I am scared.

My oldest son, Number Two, is five years old. Number Three is two years old. Number Four will be born within the next few weeks. I have had dreams, or rather nightmares, about what my future holds with three boys, this close in age.

-More penis conversations. As it stands, Number Two feels genuinely sorry for me that I don’t have a penis. He has expressed his sincere condolences for me on multiple occasions and stated his hopes for me that I might grow a penis one day. Apparently it is the only way he can see that I can achieve true happiness. I assume that, like Number Two, Numbers Three and Four will also wonder one day soon where my penis is, why I wasn’t given one and may even feel genuine pity for me like their brother. I have had to field countless questions from Number Two about my penis, or lack thereof, and listen to countless observations from him about his own penis and he went through a phase, around 3 years old, where he just wanted to be naked and let it all hang out. If you were a guest in my home, you could pretty much be guaranteed to see him pant-less.

-My home is going to smell like a gym sock. I grew up with brothers. I have friends with older boys. For some reason or another, no amount of air freshener or candles, soap or cologne seems capable of masking, much less neutralizing, the locker room aroma that evidently permeates from the pores of pubescent boys.

-Don’t even get me started on the affinity boys have for bodily functions. That starts so young.

-Puberty=Semen. Everywhere.

-Peeing outside. I don’t even get this. Why do little boys like to piss outside? Number two LOVES to pee in the backyard. I don’t even know where this came from. He just started asking me recently if he could go outside to pee. He gets really upset when I say no and when I have allowed it, you would think I had just given him an early Christmas present. I never had this with my daughter.

May the force be with me. I am afraid. Very afraid.

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I remember, as a child, my mother saying things like, “Can’t I just eat my own food/drink my own drink”? I remember her saying, “Can’t I just have one minute to myself”? Growing up, I just thought my mom was being a selfish asshole. After all, I just wanted a drink or a bite! Now that I am a mother, though, I understand. Completely.

I am convinced that I could prepare a four course meal of my children’s favorite foods, like chicken nuggets, mashed potatoes, macaroni and chocolate chip cookies with ice cream on top, then make myself a dog shit sandwich and they would turn their noses up at their plates and beg for a share of what was on mine. I don’t remember what it is like to not have to share my food or drink. If I try to refuse to share, you would think I had just told my children that I was going to Disneyworld without them. The moment the food hits the plate, I hear, “I want a bite”. The minute I stop filling my glass, I hear “I want a sip”. For the love of vodka, I don’t want to share anymore!

I look back now and realize other things I took for granted before becoming a mother. I never really appreciated things like going to the bathroom alone. Now, every time I go to the bathroom, I have a captive audience. It never fails that there is some urgent need the moment I need to pee. Sometimes, it is just a bout of separation anxiety that compels my child to reunite with me seconds after I leave the room. Maybe they are checking on me to make sure I am not slipping out the window. Other times, they suddenly have one or one hundred questions and/or observations that simply cannot wait until I am finished relieving myself.

“Who is your favorite?”

“Do you like green or blue?”

“Where is your penis?”

“Your butt looks big.”

If you have a fragile self-esteem, I suggest you avoid parenthood.

Even when I am just sitting on the couch, watching television, I feel like a mother possum. My boys, especially, are right on top of me. Number three is on my lap, laid back against my huge pregnant belly, only putting more pressure on my teeny tiny bladder. Number two is huddled up to me, his arms flung across me and holding on tight. At this point in my pregnancy, I barely remember what feeling comfortable means. Add a couple of layers of little people on top of the one kicking my ass from the inside and I am practically claustrophobic. Killing a puppy in front of them would get me the same reaction I get when I kiss their heads and affectionately tell them, “I love you so much. Now, get the hell off of me before I throw you off of me.” I just don’t get it.

If they aren’t right on top of me, they are calling me from across the house. “MOM”! “MOM”! “MOM”! Then, when I kindly reply, “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT”? They seem indignant as they tell me, “nevermind”. What the hell do they want from me? I answered you, didn’t I? Unless it is an emergency, do NOT yell across the house.

Like this:

All I ever heard, prior to having children, was that pregnancy was miraculous/beautiful/amazing. Then I got pregnant and was forced to discover, all on my own, that it was all a cruel trick–an obvious line of bullshit that proved, once again, that misery loves company. I’m going to lay it all out for you. This is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth!

“Morning sickness”- This could strike at any hour of the day. Some women won’t experience it, at all. Others will feel a wave of nausea or throw up once. Others will spend all day, every day, with their heads hung over the same porcelain bowl that accommodates various asses throughout the day.

Kiss those pretty pink areolas buh-bye! Your nipples are getting a makeover! Hope you like brown.

While I am on the subject, you should also know that they are going to get a lot bigger too. Those pretty little, dainty nipples you were previously sporting are now going to be visible from space.

Stretch marks can happen at any given time during pregnancy. I know so many women that have said, in the seventh or eighth month of pregnancy, that they felt lucky to get away with no stretch marks. Then the stretch mark fairy comes to visit. Other women think that they managed to get through pregnancy stretch mark free, only to give birth and discover that the underside of their belly (the part they couldn’t see) looked like they had been bull whipped. You can slather your belly and ass in all the cocoa butter and vitamin E that your little heart desires. It won’t keep you from getting stretch marks. If you don’t get stretch marks, you can thank genetics. If you tell me about how you don’t have any stretch marks, I will kick you in the taco.

Pregnancy hormones can make you feel like you are going crazy. You will cry, at least once (probably more), for no discernible reason. I have been resigned to ripping out my husband’s jugular with my bare hands because he didn’t take out the trash before leaving for work. In a matter of a second and a half, I can go from laughing and feeling great and then, without warning, I want to burst into tears and half the time I don’t know why I am crying.

Pregnesia- Forgetful doesn’t begin to describe what pregnancy does to your brain. Last week, I went to the grocery store to pick up a few items for some snacks, as I was having a few friends over. I paid for my groceries, walked out to my car, loaded up my two-year old and headed home. I didn’t even realize for at least another half hour that I had not brought a single grocery home with me. Nope. I had loaded up my toddler and pulled out of the parking lot, leaving my bags in the grocery cart.

You are probably going to pee in your pants, at least once. I promise. Whether it is because you laughed hard, sneezed or cough, rest assured, you are going to end up with piss in your pants at some point. Don’t worry, most women regain full bladder control. With my second pregnancy, I may or may not have gone to L&D, convinced my water had broken, only to be informed by the doctor that I had just peed on myself. Ahhhh, memories.

Your vagina may stop bleeding for nine months but your facial orifices are going to start! The extra blood volume necessary to support you and your baby is going to cause some fun stuff! My nose, for instance, bleeds at the drop of a hat. In the morning, in the evening, in the middle of the night; at any given time, blood just starts pouring out of my nose. It is best to also be prepared for all the blood you will see every time you brush your teeth. Every time I finish brushing, it looks like I slaughtered a small animal in my sink. It is soooo sexy.

I admit, feeling your baby move inside of you for the first time is indescribable. It is amazing. Then they get bigger and stronger and they get lower. There is nothing like walking through the store and suddenly being paralyzed for a split second because your precious gift from heaven just gave your cervix a head butt. It is like getting shocked with 5oo volts of electricity in your vagina.

You gain weight everywhere. Even if it is only due to temporary bouts of water retention, you are most likely going to experience a day or two of swollen sausage fingers and cankles.

The “joys” of pregnancy, for me, are fairly few and far between. I hate being pregnant, truth be told. I spend the majority of pregnancy being absolutely miserable. Now, before you get all sanctimonious on me, let me finish! I am not a fan of being pregnant but, considering the fact that I am doing it for the FOURTH TIME, I obviously feel that the end justifies the means.

Are there any things that you wish you had been told about being pregnant?

I was pregnant with Number 2 and, during an ultrasound, was stunned to be told that I was carrying twins! A day later, I was told it as identical twins. Over the next couple of weeks, I went from surprise to absolute excitement. I was picking out names, planning out different nurseries in my head, trying to figure out how to afford two of everything and picturing our lives with twins. Then, at the beginning of the second trimester, it was discovered that one of the twins no longer had a heartbeat. For a few days, I convinced myself that it was a mistake and that I would go back to the doctor and they would see the heartbeat and admit they were wrong. Needless to say, that didn’t happen. I had lost one of my babies. I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. Unfortunately, well-meaning friends and family only made it worse with their attempts to be comforting. Today, I am fine. Honestly, the only time I am reminded of that time is when friends and loved ones reveal or discuss their own loss(es). This has all inspired me to try to get the word out of things NOT to say to a woman who has experienced miscarriage(s).

When I lost one of my twins, one of the things people would say to me was, “At least you still have one”. Let me explain to you why this is just a shitty thing to say: Most mothers carrying multiples don’t view the babies they are carrying as “spare tires” or expendable. A loss is a loss.

“It is just God/nature’s way of letting you know that something was wrong.”- Wrong with her or wrong with the baby? That is the unanswered question that will plague her. Which answer would comfort her more?

“At least you know that you can get pregnant!”- Well, what a frickin’ relief. I would bet dollars to donuts that she is more upset about the fact that she didn’t STAY pregnant, though. Think.

“You can try again and have another.”- She wanted the baby she lost. Don’t talk about her child like it is a household item that can simply be replaced.

“At least you know you have an angel in heaven.”-I promise you, she would rather be holding her angel in her arms.

How would this sympathy card be considered comforting?

If you are faced with a loved one that is struggling with a loss, just shut your mouth and listen. Hug her. If she wants to cry, let her cry. “If you want to say something:

“I’m here for you.”- So simple but it means so much.

“I know how much you wanted this baby.”- Acknowledging that her loss is meaningful and her grief is valid will go a long way.

“I don’t know what to say.”- This is the best thing to say when you don’t know what to say. Don’t try to make her feel better with any of the above sentiments. Admitting your at a loss for words is okay. Just let her know that you are willing to listen to her.

“How are you doing?”- If you don’t know, just ask. Let her tell you where she is emotionally.

When I lost Number 2’s twin, I cut myself off from everyone but my mother for a couple of weeks. It wasn’t because I remained so consumed with grief that I could no longer interact socially. It was because I couldn’t take one more person trying to offer me “comfort” in their attempts to be profound. I have friends and relatives that have experienced loss, even multiple losses resulting from diagnosed infertility. It turns out, I am not just some asshole who gets pissed or annoyed at people trying to make me feel better. No. It turns out, being well-intentioned doesn’t negate being insensitive for most other women mourning the loss of a child either.

Just some food for thought, for anyone that wants to actually be a positive presence for a woman/couple grieving the loss of a pregnancy.

For those that have experienced a loss, what are some of the most jaw dropping comments that were said to you?

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After my recent blog about the stupid things people say to pregnant women and just when I thought I had heard it all, I had an encounter during a recent ultrasound that took the cake. Let me preface this by saying that it is rare that something or someone renders me speechless. I usually have a lot to say and will voice my opinion at any given opportunity but this woman put me at a complete loss for words. Okay, so let’s get in the DeLorean and go back in time to my ultrasound appointment a week ago…

I am laying on the table, with my shirt pulled up over my ginormous belly and the paper table-cloth tucked into the super sexy elastic lining of my shorts as the tech is typing random shit into her computer. She starts asking me the usual small talk questions over the sound of the “PPPPPFFFFTTT” made when she squeezes the bottle of gel over my stomach.

Tech: “So, do you have any other children?”

Me: “Yes, this is my fourth.”

Tech: “How old are your others?”

Me: “I have a ten-year old daughter and my sons are five and two.”

Tech: “Do they all have the same Dad?”

Me: *blank stare* “Huh? Yeah. Ummm—-wait—what?!?”

Tech: “It’s just that, usually, with an age gap like that they don’t have the same father.”

The talk switched to the baby on the ultrasound screen at that point, which immediately held my undivided attention, completely distracting from the awkward exchange that had just taken place. After I left the doctor’s office, the conversation replayed in my head and I have to admit, it really pissed me off. What the shit kind of question is that to ask? It is obviously irrelevant to the job at hand and, therefore, none of her fucking business. For the record, my children were all fathered by my husband but I still found the question completely obnoxious and intrusive. I haven’t said anything about it to anyone else at the doctor’s office but I keep wondering if I should.

What are some of the most obnoxious questions or comments you have heard, pregnant or not, from strangers or alleged professionals?

When did you lose your virginity and what is the diameter of your vaginal opening?

I cannot figure it out. Yeah, yeah, I know–I’m pregnant. I’m “supposed” to gain weight. This is ridiculous, though. My arms look like giant stuffed sausages and my neck has even gotten fat! Don’t even get me started on my ass. I have been super careful, though. These other pregnant women who are in their third trimester and have barely gained ten pounds make me want to go on a postal rampage. Why am I inflating like a Macy’s day parade float? My calves have stayed skinny, so I look like a potato on tooth picks. I am afraid my femur is going to shatter under the weight.

Self portrait. My arms aren't skinny anymore, though.

For the life of me, I am baffled. I am drinking my weight in water. Though, truth be told, I am peeing every12.6 minutes, so water retention is not the issue. Okay, I admit, I have a MAY-JAH sweet tooth and I indulge those pesky cravings, pretty much, on demand BUT I take every opportunity to mitigate the impact of those indulgences. For instance, I am obsessed with—I mean, this fetus is obsessed with Nutella. So, if I sit and eat an entire jar of Nutella, I cancel out the calories with a diet drink. No problem. If I decide that I want to bake some Oreos inside some chocolate chip cookies and I eat half a dozen, I make sure to eat them one at a time so that I am forced to get up off the couch and walk to the kitchen to get one and then all the way back to the couch. With that much exercise, I should be burning into a negative calorie count. I mean, my couch is AT LEAST 8 steps from my kitchen. My husband helps too because, at times, he will see me eating an ice cream sundae and will say, “I thought you wanted to watch your weight” and I can literally feel my body temperature rise and my heart start racing, right before I start crying hysterically and calling my friends telling them about how he just looked straight at me and called me a repulsive fat bitch (he gets upset and swears that isn’t what he said but I heard what he meant to say). That is calories burned!

He'll regret saying that.

If I am just going to blow up like a blimp regardless, I am not going to continue putting such effort into responsible eating habits.

I know I have touched on this before but it bears repeating. Sometimes I have to wonder if some people are just complete and total idiots or if they are just complete and total assholes. The things people say, in general, often baffles me but the things people say to a pregnant woman are mind-boggling. Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t limited to the general public or even friends and family; the things my husband says often make me want to kick him square in the coin purses. Grab a pen a pad, class. You need to take notes.

Are you having twins? – Gee, thanks! I was under the mistaken impression that my weight gain wasn’t abnormal. Now, thanks to you, I realize that my ass has grown at an alarming rate and that the only logical explanation that you can fathom is multiples.

Are you SURE you’re not having twins? Maybe they missed one! – Look, asshole, I told you that I had an ultrasound and there was only one heartbeat and only one fetus. Thanks to you, I am fully aware that I am a certifiable heifer but it is NOT because there is a hidden twin in my uterus, it is because I ate an entire pan of brownies and washed it down with chocolate chip cookies stuffed with Oreos. HAPPY NOW?!?!

You are getting HUGE! - Why is it okay to say this to a pregnant woman? Would any of you non-pregnant people appreciate this being said to you? Why do you think that just because I am pregnant that I should be okay with, much less flattered or excited by, having my weight thrown in my face every other day?

I HATE that name. - I really don’t give a fuck. Have your own baby and name it whatever the fuck you want. Also, don’t offer me a list of acceptable alternatives. I don’t care if you hate the name I have chosen and, NO, I don’t want to pick Joseph instead because you love Joseph. If you want to name your baby Tutu Fairydust, I could not give less of a fuck.

You’re not supposed to be drinking that Dr. Pepper- Kiss my ass. I will drink whatever the fuck I want. Whether I want to be reasonable and drink a Dr. Pepper every day or if I want to drink a 12 pack a day, it is none of your fucking business. Cram it.

Haven’t you had that baby yet? - Asking this question should be grounds for justifiable homicide. If I had the baby, would I still be pregnant, dumbass? Do you think I gave birth and crammed the baby back into my vagina because being kicked, having back aches, not being able to breathe, not being able to sleep, having swollen feet and fingers, sweating bullets when it is 50 degrees and having everyone express surprise at how fat your ass is getting is so much fucking fun?

Four kids?!? That is going to be hard! - No shit, Sherlock. Here I was thinking that the reason three was hard was because of the odd number. My theory is that with three, one of them is the third wheel and THAT is the reason I have to do so much parenting. Now that I am adding a fourth, the numbers will be even and they will pair off and take care of each other and I can get on with my life.

How are you feeling? - Like complete and total shit, that’s how I am feeling. I am fat. I am waddling. My legs hurt. My feet are swelling. I have to pee every 34.7 seconds. I can’t sleep. I can barely breathe. I am beyond exhausted. My back hurts. My feet hurt. A tiny human is beating the hell out of me from the inside. I AM MISERABLE. Most likely, however, I am just going to tell you “I’m fine” because people expect you to blow sunshine and rainbows up their skirts and tell you about the magical wonders of pregnancy.

Don’t you just love being pregnant? - Brace yourself: No. Actually, I do not enjoy pregnancy at all. I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE the end result but I do not enjoy being pregnant. I completely understand that there are countless women that have struggled with infertility and/or experienced losses (I have several friends that fall under those umbrellas) but I don’t see why that means that I have to learn to love being sick, being swollen, being sore, being fatigued, as well as the additional symptoms I have experienced as a result of having Lupus and Secondary Sjogren’s, like coughing up blood, severe anemia, preterm labor and all the medications that come with that, kidney infections, etc. Suck it.

The following are things and expectant father should NEVER say to his pregnant wife/girlfriend:

Are you really going to eat another cookie/brownie/bowl of ice cream? - Why don’t you just call her a fat bitch and start mooing? If you value your life, you will offer to get her that sixth brownie that she is eyeballing.

My back is killing me. - You really are barking up the wrong fucking tree. You really don’t know the meaning of discomfort until you have experienced the third trimester of pregnancy. You will be hard pressed getting any ounce of sympathy from me. Your aching back can be fixed with a little pain pill. My achy back requires that I eject a tiny human from my body and I don’t get to pick when that happens.

Why are you so tired? – You really want to pull at that thread? I can tell you exactly why, in great detail, if you want to know. Better yet, why don’t I wake you up every time I wake up to pee or because the baby kicked too hard or because I got a Charlie horse. Let me know how well rested you feel.

You should get more sleep. - Well, that is a genius fucking idea! Why didn’t I think of that?

Why are you being such a bitch? - Run. Run for your life. Best case scenario, she is going to launch into a verbal tirade, the likes of which you have never seen; giving new meaning to “bitch”. Worst case scenario, you are going to die.

(Insert name) looks GREAT for having three kids! – OH NO YOU DIH-ENT!! Shit like that will get you killed when I am not pregnant.

What did you make for dinner? - Well, I made myself a brownie hot fudge sundae. You can have whatever you want.

Like this:

And women with small breasts and narrow hips are considered “fake women”? Is this like telling the difference between a real Louis Vouitton purse and a knockoff? Who comes up with this shit? What is the definitive criteria for being considered a real woman? How many curves are required? Is there a minimum and/or maximum measurement of these curves that are considered requisite to being categorized as a real woman? Are there certain areas where curves must be present and other areas where the curves are irrelevant? Is it okay if one has narrow hips but has big boobs or big hips and no boobs? Must you have both? If a flat chested, narrow hipped woman purchases tit and ass implants, does she get promoted to “real” status? What about athletic woman, like runners or swimmers? They are typically very lean, does that make them fake?

I have some images that I need categorized; are these women real or fake:

This bitch has some major curves. Is she a "real woman", even though these curves are after market upgrades?

I assume this woman falls under the "real woman" umbrella?

This woman is a cancer survivor who underwent a double mastectomy. According to the rules of what constitutes a "real woman". she is fake. Right?

Dara Torres is a world class athlete but the saying isn't "real women have discipline and great eating and exercise habits" is it?

Real woman?

Women with untreated psychological disorders are not real?

If these are all "real women", the expression should be "real women have curves and a greater risk of heart disease and diabetes".

I am 7 months pregnant and am anything BUT thin. I have curves to spare. My boobs are comically large and my stomach is huge and my ass is catching up to my front. I am a safety hazard to the general public if I turn around within 5 feet of other people. I just didn’t think that my measurements were the defining characteristic of “real” womanhood. I thought it was a vagina. Do very thin, narrow hipped, flat chested women not have vaginas? Does it turn into a penis or close up and become smooth, like a barbie? Although, barbie’s actual measurements would have made her very top heavy, with a small waist and large hips, so she would have been “real” by the curves rule of thumb. Even when I was really thin and had almost no curves, I always had my vagina. Now, I can get behind changing the rules to “real women have vaginas”. Let’s make it official and get t-shirts.